I thought I’d read—Finnegans WakeRiverrun—past Eve and Adam’sSwerving from shore—to bending bayStrapping on a—commodius vicusBut James Joyce—said to me“You’ll never get anywhere—doing that.”

I thought of—writing a famous novelOn coffee—and Benzedrine like allThe famous writers—Kerouac & BurroughsWords oozing like honey—from a combA Pulitzer here—maybe a Nobel there“You’ll never get anywhere—doing that.”

The face in the mirror—looked like shitI dropped the compact—in my purseStaring out the train window—junkyardsColossal dumps—American back alleysOne broken-down dream—after another“You’ll never get anywhere—doing that.”

A fat ugly—Mr. Sweeney PrufuckGlanced up from—his Penthouse pornoDried saliva—smearing his smirkyRubbery lips—with a snarky smirkWhy do they all—have to look like rabbits?